


there are things we can't recall (blind as night that finds us all)

by coat



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Eventual Romance, F/F, Falling In Love, Forgiveness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coat/pseuds/coat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do not underestimate me, Clarke Griffin. My patience for you is not boundless. Nothing ties us together, not anymore.”</p><p>The body remembers, though the mind forgets. It was never meant to be a love story, but that is what it has become. </p><p>Or: Clarke forgets, but Lexa never can. </p><p>[Canon divergence from 2x16]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Passing Afternoon" by Iron & Wine
> 
> I don't own these characters!

“May we meet again.”

The words slip from Clarke’s mouth, and though she doesn’t recall hearing them before this moment, the saying is fluid and comfortable on her tongue.

The boy with shaggy hair gazes down at her, and Clarke tries to make herself feel something, anything, to match the pain in his eyes. He returns the saying, voice husky. Clarke turns away without a backwards glance. Though her memories are few, there is no denying the tender look on his youthful face, beneath the sorrow. Affection. Love.

The one you cherish is no longer here, she wants to tell him. Clarke leaves with tearless eyes, pushing away the worry clutching her heart and lifting her chin in feigned confidence. She knows the boy watches her departure until she disappears among the towering trees.

She wishes she knew his name.

* * *

The first things Clarke remembered as she trekked down the mountain were her name and haunting memories of a girl with long braided hair and dark streaks across her face. Everything else was hazy, so she had left the group before they entered ‘Camp Jaha’. She ignored the stares, and while she wondered who she was to them, her time had come to go.

Clarke doesn’t recognize the path she treads on. In the back of her mind she fears for her safety. Just in case, she keeps a hand on her hip, resting against her gun. Where are the animals, she questions, but hears nothing except the occasional birdsong. A gash on her arm oozes blood, making her a potential target.

_To treat a wound. Natural remedy, yarrow. Antiseptic, pack into cut to stop bleeding._

To her surprise, Clarke’s implicit memory takes over. She locates a tall plant with pale yellow flowers at the base of an ancient cedar. She chews the leaves - bitter, yet slightly sweet - before smearing them over the wound. Clarke lets herself be satisfied by one small accomplishment, if only for a moment.

 Her footfalls are muffled by the fallen pine nettles covering the trail, granting her a quiet presence in case she is sharing the woods with others. The towering trees - oak and pine, she is pleased to recall - defuse the afternoon sunshine, splotches of gold rippling over the forest floor.

 

_The sun shone fierce, blazing against the pale exposed skin between Clarke’s shoulder blades. The boy in front of her turned, a cocky grin erupting on his freckled face:_

_“Hey, Princess,” he drawled, smirking._

_Clarke signed, pushing forward and knocking the taller boy out her her path. Her mind was preoccupied; they needed to gather a hunting party to replenish the pitiful supplies, and Raven had mentioned something about a breakthrough with the radio. But Bellamy’s presence was a constant, though annoying at times. Clarke knew he was an impressive leader, and despite their frequent clashes, she was glad he stood beside her._

_“Not now, Bellamy.”_

 

The first flashback knocks her breath out, and Clarke’s eyes open wide in alarm. It was the one who had bid her a soft farewell.

_Bellamy._

The snippet of her old life was a promise of more to come. Someday, Clarke would remember who she was. And, more importantly, if her old self is reconcilable with who she has become. 

The ground gradually turns rocky under her feet, dense thickets of hickory giving way to scarce firs and coarse grass. Every few hours, Clarke glances around her, still hoping the landscape will spark a familiar memory.

_Where am I? Have I been here before?_

Gradually, Clarke watches the leaves fall, their crisp scent filling the woods. Barren branches claw upwards to the sky. Clarke wishes she could join them, for she feels lost. The wind twirls around her, a lone figure skirting the side of a mountain. She is utterly alone, or so it seems on the surface.

The days blend together. The passage of time doesn’t affect Clarke. She does not number her days, but measures her existence in the degree of luminesce from the waning and waxing moon. Each night, colder than the previous, defines the ever shifting seasons.

A heavy wristwatch encircles Clarke’s arm. It weighs her down, a token of the unknown past. However, as she moves to remove it, the skin beneath is pale. Clarke feels weightless without it.

_Maybe it was important to me, once. Maybe it will be again._

The watch stays.

Sometimes, it almost feels like someone is watching her. Clarke ignores it.  _Come try me,_ she dares the whispers in the trees.

_I will fight until my final breath, and after, if such a dimension exists._

But the woods send no reply, as she knew they would, and Clarke sleeps fitfully.

Clarke counts the scars etched over her body. There are so many, and she loses count; some scabbed over, others fresh. She questions the story behind each one, running her fingertips softly over the abrasions. They map her skin, a record of her history, but Clarke is missing the key and cannot decipher her past. 

At night, Clarke stretches on her back and gazes up at the stars. The names of constellations leap to her mind, unprompted - Orion, Pegasus, Hercules, Ursa Major. She doesn't know why, and it doesn't make sense, but the vast open sky feels like home.

It is twilight when she stumbles upon rows upon rows of graves. A wartime cemetary, Clarke realizes, as the headstones stretch far in each direction. The sky turns lavender, sharply contrasting with the gloomy scene, and illuminates the simple slabs of rock before each patch of freshly turned soil. Some are small, as if merely a child rests there.

She turns away as night falls, for the silence of the dead hangs heavy in the air. There was nothing Clarke could do for them.

_Did I know them? What caused this, and why?_

She would never know the source of this tragedy. Maybe that, in itself, was a blessing.

One night, without explanation, Clarke feels her muscles seize underneath her (once again, her body betrays her). She struggles, but her arms are limp weights are her sides as she rolls closer and closer to the river bank, sloshing through the reeds. Clarke opens her mouth to yell, but she chokes on a breath of water. No one is nearby. Before the current submerges her, Clarke hopes she did something worthwhile with her life, whoever she was. She feels the tide call to her, for nothing ties her to the shore, but Clarke doesn't succumb to the darkness. Mind over body, she thrashes with all she had, ferociously resisting the looming water.

* * *

Lexa wakes when the moon is high above, her chest aching as if punched. It triggers a jolt of fear in her gut, as if she is being attacked. Each time she closes her eyes, Clarke’s betrayed expression burns into her eyelids. She did what she had to do, just as Clarke did for her people.

_Would Clarke have abandoned you?_

Lexa crushes the small, unwanted thought.

The tales of Clarke had reached Polis; the tales of the girl with sunlight in her hair who brought down an entire mountain of troops in a single blow. Lexa didn't think about how Clarke’s current whereabouts were unknown, though she had survived the battle.

_You have no right to think of her in that way._

The implied _‘not anymore’_ batters at Lexa’s resolve. She had made her choice, and for her people, Lexa would've done it again. Her duty came first, but her heart still ached and she hadn't smiled in days. That is what it meant to lead.

In the darkness Lexa grabs her cape and strides through Polis, nodding at the surprised guards, before entering the stables. The familiar scent of dried grass momentarily relaxes her, and Lexa pauses to run a hand through Orion’s dark mane. Orion, the young stallion whom Lexa had named after Clarke told her tales of brave warriors and huntsmen in the sky.

The night sky is deep purple and blue, a healing bruise, as Lexa swiftly gallops through the forest. Even in the dim light, Orion delicately picks the quickest path and avoids the largest clusters of trees, but his finesse allows Lexa's thoughts to wander (as they always do) back to Clarke. Thinking of her reminds Lexa of what she would rather forget, but she can’t avoid the blonde girls’ memory forever. She had consumed Lexa like a wildfire; an equal, matched in strength of mind and spirit. They had challenged each other, parried, with no clear winner. 

Lexa is riding to forget, to convince herself that she did what she had to, when she spots a familiar figure half-submerged in a stream, hands splayed over the smooth river stones.

She forgets how to breathe. In a second, Lexa realizes her mistake. This was worse than being slashed with a thousand knives. For Clarke, she is vulnerable. _Weakness._

Clarke is akin to a lion defeated in battle; royal, even when robbed of pride. Her head is thrown back, unmistakable golden hair swirling about in the current. Her mouth is mere centimeters above the water, and her body is so, so cold as Lexa grips her around the waist and hoists her from the stream.

Lexa recognizes the unwelcome feeling filling her lungs, rising through her throat and chocking her with emotion. She knows the leaden weight of her legs, but she repeats a single phrase, over and over, as if she could ever forget it:

_Love is weakness, love is weakness, love is weakness_

_(Clarke is weakness)_

She lays Clarke down, (gently, so gently) smoothing her wet hair back and grasping her wrists, blindly searching for vital signs.

The day she lost Costia, Lexa stopped believing a god was watching out for them. But here, so many years later, she crouches beside the swiftly moving stream and pleas to any god out there.

She finds the pulse; shallow, but existent, on the side of her neck. Lexa doesn't have time to dwell on the feeling of joy, but for the first time in several minutes, she takes a steady breath. Clarke was always a fighter; by now, Lexa shouldn't be surprised. She had left Clarke alone on a mountaintop, turned away in the darkest hour. Clarke had not only survived, but did whatever was necessary to save her people. She breathes a sigh of relief before glancing upward at the cloudless night.

_Thanks, Costia._

The wind howls in reply.

Lexa shucks off her coat and shirt, leaving only a thin undergarment. The fabric offers little protection from the freezing night air. She pulls off Clarke’s soggy clothes quickly before wrapping her small frame in dry furs. Clarke is pale, and so, so vulnerable in the dim glow of the moon. Lexa is taken back, for there is something so inherently wrong about Clarke lying pliant on the ground. She is used to Clarke always having an opinion, a natural leader who remains loyal to the end. Clarke is anything but fragile, and the silence unsettles her.

Lexa picks her up, one arm cradling her head and the other beneath her knees. Clarke’s hands unconsciously curl to Lexa’s chest and she turns towards her. The cold wind batters the two leaders, and Lexa’s shoulders are soon covered in goosebumps, but Clarke’s breath is warm against her collarbone. In the back of Lexa’s mind, he wonders how Clarke will react when she wakes up. For the moment Clarke is safe, and while Lexa would be loath to admit it, that’s all that matters.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do not underestimate me, Clarke Griffin. My patience for you is not boundless. Nothing ties us together, not anymore.”
> 
> The body remembers, though the mind forgets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support! <3

Clarke’s dreams are haunted by lost-looking youth with fearful faces. They clutch weapons as if their lives depend on it - and perhaps they do. She watches, a ghost in her own life, as Bellamy commands the group. His voice rises loud and reassuring over the fray, and the children turn their gaze to him. Suddenly, a thick orange fog rolls in. Clarke can no longer see the group, but she dimly hears Bellamy shouting reassurance. Even in turmoil, he keeps a clear head - Clarke wonders if that is why she respects him, even if she barley remembers him. The girl with braids and dark streaks over her eyes appears in the corner of Clarke’s vision, but when she whirls to confront her, the figure disappears.

 _Come back, please,_ Clarke shouts into the fog. All she hears is her own voice, echoed back to her.

Blinding light sears against Clarke’s eyelids. Her head feels akin to splitting in two as consciousness flows sluggishly back to her. She struggles to remember where she is, because the ground beneath her is definitely softer then soil near the river bed. She can’t hear the stream, either. A memory hits her; the feeling of helplessness, water rushing around her ears. She quickly composes herself, shushing the sudden fear.

_You are Clarke. You are alive. You are not a concept, you are composed of matter. You exist. Wake up and face it._

Clarke grudgingly opens her eyes and attempts to roll over before flinching in shock. Sitting not five feet away, lounging against the truck of a giant oak, is the girl. She looks as if she walked straight from the fog of Clarke’s dream world. If she was alluring in Clarke’s memories, she is a striking figure manifest; hauntingly beautiful with her head held high. A warrior, a ruler, someone to be feared and respected. She is tall, with streaks of black covering her face and a complex array of russet braids. Her eyes, for a moment, are young, but within a slip second she has schooled her face into a hard mask. A blink and she would have missed it.

“Clarke.”

The voice is surprisingly smooth for such a closed off exterior. It is a question as much as a statement, and it has Clarke unconsciously reaching around behind to grab her knife. Judging by the sun's location, she guesses it's midday. She lies among a thick grove of trees, and though the forest dilutes the harshest rays, the sun still reaches her. Something that looks like a cape covers her body but she shakes it away to rise unsteadily. Her feet tremble with effort.

The girl keeps her face impassive; “I knew we would meet again. I found you sitting in the river late last night -“

“Who the hell are you? Explain yourself.”

The girl blinks. For several seconds, her face is wide with surprise. Clarke knows the girl (she must, if she appears nightly in her dreams) but she doesn't remember. Her face conjures strange images in Clarke’s mind, but the memories are fuzzy and dance just beneath her consciousness. She reaches back, fingers finally grasping a jagged stone. It wasn’t her knife, but if it came down to it, she could make do. The other girl’s keen eyes don't miss the movement. Clarke holds the weapon with unsteady hands but a fierce set in her gaze. Exhaustion clouds her vision, but adrenaline courses through her.

“How do you know my name?”

The girl stares at her for a moment longer.

“Do you remember nothing, Clarke Griffin Kom Skaikru?”

Now, it was Clarke’s turn to stare at her. Clarke Griffin - the name sounds familiar, tough she doesn't recognize “ _Griffin_ ” immediately, she realizes it must be herself. Clarke’s eyes narrow dangerously, and her voice is hardly over a growl. The rock is a reassuring weight in her hand, but she can’t deny how intrigued she is. Her only memory is of this face. It has to mean something.  

“I said, who are you.” Her voice doesn’t waver.

“My name is Lexa. Heda Kom-“ She pauses, calculating Clarke’s confused expression. “I am commander of the Woods Clan. Grounders, as you call my people.”

Clarke realizes what a mess she must be, twigs in her hair and smelling slightly of pond weeds, compared to the regal leader before her. She also considers her safety, because this girl - Lexa - may not be who she claims to be. She tries to find the words to reply, but her mouth is dry and she swallows thickly. Lexa gracefully rises and steps lithely towards Clarke. Her grip on the rock tightens, but Lexa merely extends a canteen towards her.

“Drink. You will need your strength.”

Clarke eyes the water for several seconds, weighing the options. If she had wanted to poison me, she already had ample opportunity. Lexa is close, and she can sense the undeniable strength in her stance. Clarke doesn’t trust her, but what choice does she have?

She takes the bottle. Lexa turns away.

In an unsteady surge of movement, Clarke lurches forward. Muscle memory takes over, and she drives the sharp stone towards the girl. Clarke’s focuses on a single thought: _she always has a choice_.

Lexa sidesteps her attack, spinning quickly. She moves behind Clarke, chin brushing the crown of the blonde’s head, and knocks the stone from her hand. Clarke stares at the angry red indents covering her palm. Lexa is a warm, solid force against her, and though Clarke struggles, the grip on her wrist merely tightens. Her back is pressed flush against Lexa, who remains still as marble. She smells like charred wood and sparks from a flame. Lexa’s mouth brushes lightly against Clarke’s ear, and she feels electrocuted, spellbound by an unnamable force. _The body remembers, though the mind forgets._ All desire to escape leaves her in a heartbeat. Lexa's voice lowers an octave.

“Do not underestimate me, Clarke Griffin. My patience for you is not boundless. Nothing ties us together, not anymore.”

The iron grip drops suddenly, and Clarke sways with sudden _absence_. She will never admit in, but she has been alone for so long. She misses human contact. Lexa's very presence towers over Clarke, and her voice has a harsher edge. Her eyes are steel. There is no doubting the warrior within Lexa, the spirit of a leader who never admits defeat.

“You must rest. Soon, we will continue to your camp,” Lexa is several feet away before she speaks again.

“No.”

The brunette looks up, eyebrows raised. It is not surprise - Clarke doubts she has the power to cause that.

“What do you mean, no?”

“What do you think no means, Lexa?” she snaps, anger bubbling over. “I don’t even know who you _are_. Do you think I’m stupid? How can you expect me to blindly follow the first person who knows my name?”

“I have never considered you an idiot.”

Clarke groans and slams her fists on the ground, pain jolting through her forearms. She ignores it, pushing forward. Rage and fear surge through her, emotions tumbling for release. Clarke exhales through her teeth. She can’t even voice her nightmare - she doesn’t know who she is or if Lexa can be trusted. She has been alone and she’s afraid, but she thinks the old Clarke wasn’t the type to admit fear. Something in the way Lexa watches her suggests that yes, she can trust her, but Clarke doesn’t know if she can trust her instincts, even if they’re all she has.

“I’m not going back there. I left for a reason,” she finally replies.

Lexa’s voice is suddenly surprisingly gentle, “Your people need you, Clarke.”

“My people?” she paces in front of Lexa, running a hand through her matted blonde hair.  _Disgusting, I really need a shower._

Turning back to Lexa, she continues the tirade. “I don’t recognize a single one of them! How can I lead others if I don't even know who I am? You could be lying, for all I know!"

Lexa nods, "I will have to earn your trust, once again."

* * *

Lexa’s mind is a battlefield. Her mind shouts that Clarke is gone; her spirit abandoned the mortal vessel. But her heart will not accept it, and she fights the facts she has always regarded without question. Lexa knows that when a person loses their memory, it signifies that the spirit has departed. When elders slowly forget who they are, and the people around them, it means they were nearing the end of this lifetime. When they die, Lexa knows, all regrets and anger that consume humans fades away, and everything returns to the environment. Someday, the soul will find another life on earth and live on. Reincarnation, they call it. When Lexa dies, her spirit will immediately find the next Commander. This is how the world works, according to her people.

But Clarke was here, in front of her. Past the guarded expression, she is still Clarke. She holds onto a desperate belief that maybe one day, Clarke would return to her.

_Wait for me, just a little longer._

Lexa doesn’t know how to help her, or convince her to accept responsibilities. Clarke is a leader, and without her people, she’s practically directionless. Lexa knows that Clarke loves ordering others around; it gives her a role, a purpose. Though she will never admit it, Lexa understands that Clarke gets lonely, as all people do.

“If you will not return to your people, then come with me until you are ready. I know a hidden place not far from here," she offers, sudden hope filling her. 

“Thanks, but I can take care of myself,” Clarke retorts, her chin raised. The cut on her lip continues to ozze blood.

_Defiant, a true warriors heart._

Lexa wants nothing more than to be back at her tent that day, Clarke's lips soft and insistent against hers'. But she can’t dwell on the past. It is over, whatever they had shared.

‘Not yet’ Clarke had said. More like ‘not ever’, now. Yet Lexa knows, if Clarke truly wanted to go, she would let her. She needs to accept her wishes - she owed Clarke that, at the very least. “

Please, Clarke.” Lexa hated to hear her voice this way, but she needed to convey the importance.

“I’m sorry, but no. I need to stay here. I - I can’t exactly explain it. Maybe someday.”

Disappointment threatens to drown her. For once, Lexa is at a loss of course of action. She straightens up, gazing Clarke head on.

“Fine, then I will stay with you.”

The shorter girl snorts, muttering something about “yeah right”. She catches Lexa’s somber expression, and immediately sobers up.

“Wait… Lexa, you’re serious? Why? You have your people to look out for. And I’m perfectly capable. I don't need anyone.”

Lexa looks over, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. “I have never doubted your abilities, Clarke Griffin. I will earn your trust. And you’re my people.” she repeats Clarke’s own words, unbeknownst to the girl. She smiles slightly, staring at Lexa with a thoughtful quirk of her head.

She leads the path beside Orion, Clarke following a few steps behind. Despite Lexa’s arguing, she refuses to ride the giant ebony horse. When they stop for a water break, Clarke gently strokes his dark mane and stretches onto her toes to reach his head. Lexa watches them quietly, before finally speaking.

“You named him, you know.”

“I did?” She turns, eyes filled with questions only Lexa could answer. Lexa relishes in it. 

“You are of the stars, Clarke. Orion is a constellation you showed me.”

“He was a hunter, wasn't he?”

Delight sparks in Lexa’s eyes “Yes, you are correct. Do you remember?”

“Sometimes,” she bites her lip. “It come in flashes.

They sit in silence for a minute, until Clarke speaks again.

“Who was I, Lexa? And not just my name - me.” Lexa understands. But she can’t find the words to say it simply.

“It is a long tale,” she begins, cautiously.

“I have time.”

Lexa begins to weave the story of Clarke and her group of misfit criminals who fell from the sky one fateful day. It was never meant to be a love story, but that is what it has become. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa remembers, for the first time since Costia died, why love is so renowned.

“I fell from the sky?”

“Yes, you did. Like shooting stars, but you came too close, and the ground shook. No crater could make such an impact. 100 of you, all children.”

They walk through the forest together, slowly. Clarke repeats, over and over, that she's “fine” and “can we get a move on?” Unbeknownst to her, Lexa doesn’t miss the slight limp in her gait and fatigue clouding her eyes. Clarke looks at her critically, scoffing.

“Lexa, you’re just a child yourself.”

“My spirit is older than you will ever know.” She smiles sadly, and in that moment, she ages before Clarke’s eyes. Lexa is filled with unbearable sorrow.

_How can anyone carry so much pain, and keep going? The Lexa I knew before, was she this sad?_

Clarke feels a pang of empathy for the young commander. She obviously cares for the girl Clarke used to be. But Clarke doesn’t know how to be that person anymore. Before she can speak, Lexa continues.

“From my tent in Tondc, I watched you appear. Some of my warriors wanted to find you. I said, let them die. The creatures of the woods will take them soon, and it is not worth the effort.” Lexa pauses to glance at Clarke. A small smile plays at her lips.

“But you did not die, Clarke Griffin. You naively started a war, one that you couldn’t end. But you were brave, you were fearless.”

* * *

 They have no destination, not really. Clarke just wants to know the story of herself, and then she’ll leave. Disappear back into the woods, or find a home beside the mountain. She fell from the sky like a meteor, yet caused far more damage than one. Lexa does not know which impact was greater: the hole in the earth or in Lexa herself. A mighty mountain cowered before her. She would do anything for her people, and unconsciously still is.

Lexa can’t delude herself into thinking the girl would stay with her. Clarke was inevitable. Clarke was reckless, she was pragmatic. A walking contradiction. She could never belong to anyone, not even Lexa. Clarke smiles, tips her head back as she considers Lexa’s words.

Lexa remembers, for the first time since Costia died, why love is so renowned.

The sun sets in a flare of orange light, and temperature drops instantly. The two carefully pick their way along the forest border, a few feet apart, and both realize they must find shelter for the night. They pause to rest in a crevice of the mountain, a slight overhang jutting from the cliff. The space is small but cozy. Lexa picks dry green moss and two stones from her bag, edges worn soft from frequent use. In minutes, a fire blazes, casting shadows over the cave walls. Clarke watches the other girl, back hunched against the cold outside wind, as if protecting the blonde from what lies beyond.

“You must sleep,” Lexa says, without looking up. “I will keep watch. You are safe.”

Clarke doesn’t want to trust her, this strange girl who walked into her life proclaiming she knew everything. But she relizes that her life is not in immediate danger, as long as she is keeping watch. Clarke lies back against the smooth wall. She watches the flames dance on Lexa’s face until her eyes close.

The nightmares are relentless. Bit by bit, every night, she starts to remember. Nothing major, nothing sudden; glimpses and fragments, like tiles of a mosaic coming together.

A boy with floppy hair, her head nestled on his bare shoulder, his features sharp in the candlelight. Then they are outside, and he is laughing, holding branches out of path for her. His eyes seeking only hers in a crowd of children. Daring eyes, alight with challenge. Standing beside her, head raised. Clarke remembers pain, but large hands cradling her head and the boy looking down at her softly.

Clarke hears shots, gunfire. She is panting, racing through the trees after a figure she recognizes as Bellamy. He looks back at her once, worry in his eyes, before charging forward again. They burst through the trees just as the same boy raises his gun, and yet another body falls to the ground. The tang of blood fills the air. Clarke nearly chokes. She watches as dark, dark crimson rivers seep into the ground. Forever marking the site of this tragedy. The boy looks up, but this time, his face is transformed, eyes sparking with madness. When they settle on Clarke, reality seeps back in. She watches, horrified, as he seems to wake up, looking about himself with alarm. He steps closer, blood stains covering his shirt.

All she can think of is how hard that will be to clean. _Will the blood ever wash out of the shirt?_ She feels ridiculously bad for the scrap of fabric. Clarke steps back, away from his hands. They are covered in blood, but not his own.

Clarke wakes in a sweat, flinching as reality hits her. When she opens her eyes, Lexa is already there, just a few feet away. A constant presence, a reminder of what is real.

“The boy, with hair falling his eyes. A gun, people dying. Why so many?”

She can’t stop the tremor of her voice, and her mind is sleepy with sleep. She knows the words don’t make sense, but somehow, Lexa understands.

“His name was Finn.” she pauses, tracing a slender finger in the dirt. Clarke stares at her hands, methodically forming patterns, as she speaks. “I sentenced his death.”

Finn. She thinks of snarling wolves. Relentless storms. Bruised knuckles colliding with cheekbones, transforming from metal to stardust. Pain, pain, pain.

“Why? What did he do?”

“Blood must have blood. He killed 18 innocent civilians,” Lexa looks like she’s battling with whatever to say next. Clarke wants, needs, to know the truth.

“Tell me.”

She sighs, finally looking up at Clarke. She can’t decipher the expression in her eyes. “He was searching for you.”

Clarke wants to hate her. Life is precious, no matter what. But she can’t, not from the few memories she has of Finn. Maybe, if she could recall the events herself, it would be different.

“Was it my fault?”

* * *

Lexa does not say it was Clarke herself who plunged the knife into Finn’s chest. He died quickly, instead of torturously slow like he should have. When Clarke had asked to say goodbye, a part of her knew her plan. The fierce set in the girls eyes was determined and steeled, barley holding back the grief. And yet, Lexa let her go, to live with the pain of killing her friend, driving the knife into his chest as she whispered apologies into his mouth. The boy had loved her, she knew; and for a time, Clarke loved him back. Maybe she still would, if she remembered.

“The acts one does for love, Clarke, are often unexplainable. It was not your fault.” Lexa keeps her eyes pointedly away from her when she answers.

Now, in the dim cave, shadows blanketing her expression, she lets Clarke blame Lexa. Better then blaming herself.

“He wanted to save you, but little did he know you have never needed saving. In the end, you helped him, Clarke.”

Confusion mars her features. Lexa wants to reach over and smooth the wrinkles from her face. But she doesn’t, she can’t.

“Why are you here, Lexa?” Clarke sounds tired, exasperated.

Lexa knows she is trying to put the pieces together, but she herself is muddling everything. Clarke can’t figure her out.

At that, Lexa has no words. Her former statement was true; nothing ties her to Clarke. She has no obligation to be here, but here she remains: watching Clarke keep pace beside her, the same fierce set on her face. Sitting mere feet away with intent blue eyes. She looks just the same as when they had walked side by side into battle. There was something between them, something lost; a maybe, a possibility of more. It had faded the moment Lexa turned her back on the mountainside.

When Lexa was young, she wanted to own a bird. She longed to hold such a creature, have it sit beside her on her future throne, bearing so much power in a small frame. When she told her mentor, Anya, of her ambitions, the older girl's eyes had clouded. She took lexa on a walk that afternoon, deep into the forest. 

“Be still,” Anya whispered as she sat her down on a moss-covered log.

Lexa froze, hardly breathing. Anya was like a stone beside her, and she strived to be the same. Gradually, the sounds of the forest grew loud, and Lexa cracked an eye open.

Not ten feet away, a large golden eagle was teaching her eaglets to fly. The nest was atop a large pine tree, and Lexa would have carelessly walked right by if not for Anya’s direction. She feels a rush of affection for her wise mentor.

The adult eagle extended her wings. To Lexa, they seemed to fill the entire sky. She watched, enchanted, as the mother slowly taught her children to fly. One by one, the fluffy birds began to levitate above the nest, flapping small wings and then falling with extersion. Lexa wanted to laugh at how innocent they looked, and how big they would grow.

All at once, she realized that no one could take such a creature from their home. It was simply inhumane. she looked over at Anya, who watched the birds with a slight smile. Lexa nodded, once, and Anya knew she understood. This had been the lesson. Humans work side by side with nature; we respect them, as they respect us. We do not upset the balance, and we could never own something that never belongs to us. Once a creature has felt vast open air, they become unattainable. They will never settle for less, or belong to anything other then themselves.

She walked besides Anya as they make their way back to camp. Occasionally, Lexa looked up. Her mentor walked with practiced ease, as if she had memorized the entire forest. Lexa wonders if someday she will have equal mastery of the domain. She saw a young sparrow, swooping in the air before her. Lexa no longer felt the urge to reach out and snag it from it’s home. The bird was of the sky, and no one could touch such creatures. No one could keep them in chains, weigh them down like toys.

To Lexa, Clarke is a bird.

Lexa could never deny her body’s needs. But what she felt for Clarke was far beyond infatuation; it was more than just a primal drive. And to Clarke, she was nothing. Lexa couldn't let that hurt (it does, it does). Clarke was a flame and Lexa a moth, transfixed and hypnotized. Blindly flying into the dancing sparks, then spiraling down to the floor in a flutter of charred wings. No, Lexa cannot let that happen. The risk was far too high; she is a leader, and leaders must ignore what others take for granted. She has no right to be here, besides Clarke, beside the mountain which she had abandoned her on.

She doesn't answer Clarke's question. 

* * *

To Clarke’s dismay, her memories of Lexa are few and far between. They are the ones she prizes most of all. Lexa - she thinks of honeysuckle, of lavender. Of secrets, of sorrow. Closed doors. The tang of blood and soft skin. When Lexa looks at her, Clarke doesn't understand the raw power behind her gaze.

Lexa, across a table, voice loud in the crowded room, and a strange feeling filling Clarke. The people, clad in dark garb, howling agreement as Lexa speaks in a thickly accented foreign tongue. Their eyes meeting, holding, as warriors chant battle cries around them. It is tender yet rough, and Clarke is not afraid. 

She wakes in a sweat at dawn. The first traces of light barely reach beneath the overhang. The fire smolders, having blown out sometime in the night, but Clarke is not shivering from cold. It is her memories that fill her with dread. All she can remember is the same boy, long hair plastered back with sweat and rain, his chapped lips urgent against hers. He whispers a faint thank you against her lips, but the howling wind almost drowns his voice. And Clarke herself, pulling away; hands dyed with his blood and the knife slipping to the ground.

When she wakes, Lexa is gone.


End file.
